“Hurricane Bob”—The Aftermath

When last I left off, in a former FB postI told you my fiancée died, 3 weeks after we’d moved into our freshly-bought house. Since we weren’t married, I, alone, inherited the full mortgage (word to the wise: Don’t sign the note for the house, if you’re not prepared to pay for it by yourself.)

I was devastated by his sudden loss …and drowning in debt during the summer when I got no pay.

So, as desperate people often do, I threw caution to the wind and decided to take my 2 daughters, for a little R&R, up in New Hampshire at a resort. But there were harbingers from the git-go that told me things would not go well.

First, we headed to my sister’s house, in the lakes district of Maine, where we’d spend 2 nights and then go west, across interior Maine to the New Hampshire resort.

On the 2nd day, my pre-owned Saab lost its transmission, as I went down a steep hill in Halliwell, Maine, a quaint little town near my sister’s home. Our car had to be towed to a dealer in the capital city of Augusta, since service stations nearby didn’t have the necessary part. Her husband took care of the details.

We borrowed one of their cars and started off. But since a light kept flashing on the dash, while knee-deep in the Maine interior, I pulled over and my 20-year-old daughter scrunched under the chassis to check if anything were dangerously amiss (Note—neither one of us has any mechanical/auto training and wouldn’t know a problem if it smacked us in the head!)

We’d seen no service stations for miles and it was “BC”—before cell phones which is a moot point for there wouldn’t have been cell service, anyway. We white-knuckled it the rest of the way.

We finally pulled into the resort after a very long day whereby I called my sister and learned that the flashing light signified nothing; it was a mere idiosyncrasy of the car.

We had only one day of cavorting in the resort’s fresh mountain air, swimming, enjoying. The very next morning, as I went down for coffee, I saw the gathering in the only room that had a TV and overheard a weather forecaster state: “At this moment, Hurricane Bob is breathing down the neck of Rhode Island.”

My knee-jerk reaction? Call my Mom (tho’ she was in her late-70’s by this point.) I admit it—I wasn’t thinking straight. I had no one else I could call…no relatives (they’re all out of state)…no male friends to intercede for me in a crisis.

My mother actually intended to drive the 15 minutes over to my neighborhood, knock on my new neighbors’ doors and beg them to help put my yard furniture away (if only to protect themselves.)

But thankfully, wiser heads prevailed. The state had already shut down all roads.

Finally, we got in touch with the across-the-street father of my younger daughter’s new friend. He agreed to go over, hop the stone wall, encircling our back yard, retrieve the key, check all the windows and doors, put away outside furniture.

When we returned home, I surveyed the wreckage. Our uncovered pool was a swamp filled with branches from many trees, giant limbs juxtaposed, leaves, flotsam and jetsam from our and others’ yards (by the way, F and J does NOT refer to the thrash metal band, in this instance.)

With this latest defeat, I felt beaten, again…

This was supposed to be our few days of relaxation after a terrible time of loss. Instead, it was anything but…..

But for the 3 of us (Kerry, Amanda and I) who’d already been through so many crises, our car failing, the worrisome journey through interior Maine, that damn dashboard light, Hurricane Bob and its wreckage became just another island of challenge…

In an archipelago.


Soon, I’ll tell you what happened after this….

P.S. The photo is that of the glorious Balsams Resort in New Hampshire which we never got to fully enjoy.


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